


Knife's Point

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Insanity, Kissing, Knifeplay, Memories, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I won't hurt you," said the Hound, but his dagger was clenched in his fist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife's Point

"I won't hurt you," said the Hound, but his dagger was clenched in his fist. Sansa shrank back, fearful in spite of his promises. He followed the line of her gaze. "It's not for you," he muttered curtly, wiping the blade on his tunic, regretting it too late, hoping she wouldn't see the rust-red smear it left behind, or at least wouldn't ask who it belonged to. He was meant to be rescuing her, not terrifying her.

"Are you really… really here?" she asked, hope in her voice beneath the fright.

Sandor pushed the door, which swung loose on its hinges, shut as best as he could. "We'll run when we get the signal. Be ready."

He ought to have let the bitch from Tarth be the one who scaled the wall into the keep to bring Sansa out, but he'd given her a list of compelling strategic reasons why he was better suited to the task, starting with his doubts over whether she'd kill fast enough to prevent the alarm being raised, if it came down to that. He wouldn't admit that it was because he wanted to be the first one Sansa looked up at with grateful eyes. Brienne had grudgingly agreed that she could create a suitable distraction to cover their escape. "No fire," he'd warned her, but the Maid of Tarth had simply sniffed and said she would do whatever was necessary, just as he would, and there'd been nothing he could say against that.

Sansa's eyes kept straying back to the blade in his hand. He wished he could sheathe it, just so she'd stop looking at it, but he'd lifted it off one of the guards he'd killed and had nowhere to put it. "Take it, if you like the look of it so well," he told her, more crossly than he intended.

"Me? I… I couldn't…" Sansa stammered, wringing her hands.

For some reason, that only made him angrier. "Take it!" he snapped, shoving the blade, pommel-first, at her. She still hesitated, so he grabbed her wrist and brought her hand up to take it, whether she wanted to or not.

She held it uncertainly, her hand looking tiny around a hilt sized for a soldier. Unbidden, the thought of that delicate hand gingerly gripping something else too big for it sprang to his mind. He turned away so she wouldn't notice the way his breeches had grown tight at the laces. "If anyone tries to hurt you, stick 'em with that," he told her grimly.

"Anyone?" she asked softly.

He frowned, figuring she was asking whether she'd have to kill anyone she knew. He bit back a sharp answer. "Anyone."

"Even you?" A new chill had come into her voice, one he couldn't remember ever hearing there before. And then he felt the gentle prick of the dagger's tip through his tunic, just below his right kidney.

His first instinct was to whip around and rip the weapon from her – he was nearly certain he could overpower her before she could do him any serious damage – but he didn't. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said instead, keeping his tone level.

"Maybe not this time," she said sharply. "But what about on the night of the Blackwater Battle?" There was a clear accusation in her words, but he had no idea what she was referring to, and told her as much. "You don't remember?" She was getting shrill now, and he worried he'd be forced to gag her if he was going to get her out of here safely. Brienne's distraction would be welcome any time...

"You kissed me," she said, thankfully more softly. "You told me you loved me, and that you'd always keep me safe. And then you left, and… and…" He couldn't see her face, but she sounded as though she was on the verge of tears. "And you never came back for me," she finished, snuffling even as she prodded him harder with the dagger. "You broke my heart."

The girl must've gone soft in the head. "Well, I've come back now," he said in a bid to buy time, breathing as lightly as possible.

"And now we'll always be together," she said with complete, alarming certainty. "You'll be my Hound and I'll be your little bird. Forever."

He bit his lip, considering his options. The dagger was digging into his skin now, blood no doubt beading about its point. Even so, he was reluctant to hurt her. Maybe it was better to play along for now and hope to take the blade away from her when she let her guard down. "Can I turn around?" he asked warily.

There was a pause before she said yes, lifting the blade's tip slightly so he could move. Her face was pale, but for two red spots burning up her cheeks as if she had fever. Her chin was tipped up, and she was looking him straight in the face, eyes wide with an adoration wholly unfamiliar to Sandor. "I let you turn around," she told him sweetly, "so you could kiss me."

Sandor had imagined kissing her a thousand times or more, but would never have dared do so. But the dagger pointed at his stomach gave him the courage he lacked. He bent to bring his lips to hers as gently as he was able, cupping the side of her head with one large hand. She kissed him back with considerable enthusiasm, pressing her tongue against his sealed mouth. When he tried to pull back, he found she'd slid the dagger alongside his neck. He knew that by all reason he shouldn't have been as hard as he was, but the light caress of the blade's edge along his skin was driving him almost as wild as the insistent force of her tongue. If she opened his windpipe now, at least he would die with the warmth of her kiss as his last memory. He parted his lips for her, and she moaned softly against his mouth. A line of fire seemed to burn wherever she traced the blade, but it wasn't a fire he feared.

She drew back for breath at last, but kept the knife's point pressed against the hollow of his throat. "You don't need to do that," he told her, his senses beginning to gradually come back to him even as his back began to protest at being bent over so long. "I'd never hurt you again, I swear it. I'll always protect you."

Her hand quivered, and he felt the blade cut just a little deeper. He held his breath. Finally, at last, she lowered the knife to her side, then dropped it to the stone floor. "I didn't… I never meant…" she began slowly, as if shocked by what she had done.

Just then he heard a whistle from the courtyard below – Brienne's signal. The guards at the gate must be either dead or lured away from their posts, it didn't matter much to him which, so long as they could make their hasty exit. He grabbed Sansa's wrist to pull her along, only to find her struggling against him. "What's your problem?" he snarled.

"I can't elope with you! We must get my father's permission for us to wed!"

Sandor no longer had time to humour her madness, but he did almost wish he had time to stop in and have a friendly conversation with Littlefinger about his 'daughter'. However, if he did, someone was likely to end up dead. So, regretfully, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, then hurried out of the room, hoping he wouldn't have to knock her unconscious. She kicked and screamed a bit, but soon quieted down, which made him oddly nervous. "You all right?" he asked her in a whisper, lifting his hand off her mouth so that she could reply.

"I'm just so happy," she whispered back. "After all, eloping is _very_ romantic. It's like when Bael the Bard carried off Lord Stark's daughter…although that didn't have a very happy ending," she added, worried. "But our song will, won't it?"

Sandor almost laughed to think of a song being written about him. The best ending he could hope for was that once he'd returned her to her family, they wouldn't have him hanged like a dog. But it wouldn't do to say as much to her. "Of course it will," he told her instead. "Now hush." And he carried her out into the empty courtyard and through the open gates to where Brienne was waiting. If the Maid of Tarth noticed the delicately traced cuts on his face and neck, she didn't say anything about them.


End file.
